


Trudge

by dark_muse_iris



Series: Dreamcatcher Oneshot Stories [1]
Category: Dreamcatcher (Korea Band), K-pop
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Emotional, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Gay Sex, Heavy Angst, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Female Character, LGBTQ Themes, Lesbian Character, Lesbian Sex, Oral Sex, POV Female Character, POV Lesbian Character, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Self-Hatred, Self-Insert, Smut, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 04:24:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18403037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dark_muse_iris/pseuds/dark_muse_iris
Summary: On the last night before you break up with your girlfriend of two years, you say goodbye the only way you know how.Excerpt:There is cruelty in a farewell that never should have been. Like the bonds you formed so recklessly in your youth, you rush toward the precipice, your chest thrumming with the erratic beats of indecision. The inevitability of your situation anchors to your heart, a burden for weeks. You must jump. Again. It is the right thing to do, even though you know it will hurt.





	Trudge

**Author's Note:**

> Pairing: Handong (Dreamcatcher) x Female Reader
> 
> Genre: Angst, smut
> 
> Warnings: Lesbian relationships, breakups, oral sex, heavy angst, self-loathing

There is cruelty in a farewell that never should have been. Like the bonds you formed so recklessly in your youth, you rush toward the precipice, your chest thrumming with the erratic beats of indecision. The inevitability of your situation anchors to your heart, a burden for weeks. You must jump. Again. It is the right thing to do, even though you know it will hurt.

She tastes like summer fruit plucked at the pinnacle of sweetness, coating your tongue with rapturous nectar as you say goodbye the only way you know how. Your fingertips sink into the flesh of her thighs and she sighs, easing her legs to open a little more. Rocking your face left to right against her warmth, you reach deeper inside of her, your tongue delving into her well to grace its walls.

"That's it," Handong whispers, trapping her bottom lip between her teeth as she shields her eyes with the back of her hand. Her waist tilts to welcome you further inside and it’s that involuntary yielding of her body which fuels your sordid act.

It's the last time. You promise yourself it's the last time because you know you can't give this one what she needs either. It's unfair to always be the first to see the end of a relationship, but you hear the closing chime with each dulcet moan she makes. She's rooted like an oak tree, attached to the life plan her parents gave her, one which leads to settling down and building a comfortably predictable existence. You, on the other hand, are the passing wind rustling through the branches, incapable of binding yourself to permanence in any shape or form.

And she loves you.

Still, the truth haunts your every step. You know she'll never be able to build the life she wants if she's with you. It’s agonizing holding her back from her future using empty promises, as if you’re amenable to reform, to settling down and relinquishing your old habits. You love your women, then you leave them for their own good. And you'd sooner set Handong free than tie her down to a sinking ship when you have nothing to offer her but this, your body and effort.

Admittedly, it breaks your heart and yet you swallow down the anguish of knowing you'll never be a truly worthy partner to focus on the fleeting task at hand—her pleasure, your final offering. Humming gently to encourage her, you continue to trace her folds with your tongue. You take your time to unravel her with deftness and soft caresses along her waist. It is your intent to give a lasting impression of the two years you shared together: a time spent in mutual devotion as you tried to grapple with inner demons.

If only the investment had been enough to change you, you lament in silence, drawing another taste from her well. You want to communicate, in your own way, that she's worth it. More than anything, she’s worth it. She’s worth hurting in the interim to ensure her happiness in the long run. That is the mantra you cling to as it stabs your heart with endless, erratic pangs.

She'll see the grace of this decision eventually, you hope, but you know when you walk out the front door and never come back, she'll blame herself. As she rolls her hips and inches closer to climax, she is blissfully unaware and wholly beautiful. Once the worst is over, however, she’ll slip into the precipice of self-examination and doubt every kind word exchanged between you these two years. She’ll wonder if you lied when you said she glows after sex, when you said she could be whatever she wanted and make a good life in any city of her choice.

She’ll wonder if you meant the words when you said you loved her.

The truth is that a clean break is the best break, for her and for you. But for now, you let her believe you both have nothing but time and each other. Perhaps you’re a coward for allowing yourself this final dalliance, a chance to indulge in her once more before letting her go forever. You hate yourself for what you’ve become, a parasitic creature who clung too hard to a good woman. You realize it too soon, at the end of the road, that you should have pushed her away two years ago and spared her the impending heartache. If you had, there would be no lasting taste on your tongue to cement the final words of farewell, those words which are approaching more quickly than you can process.

As the serpentine tip of your tongue greets her sopping, swollen bud, her thighs tighten in your hands. They tremble as if her body is unsure what it will endure next. You'll miss that, the way she made every encounter feel like the first. You hope the next to come along will appreciate that as much as you have. She’ll struggle so much to trust again that surely the next will tend to her heart as well, or at least better than you ever did.

Yes, that's what you hope for her. It's the least she deserves after giving two years to the likes of you, the torchbearer of non-commitment masquerading as one worthy of love.

The woman beneath you starts to writhe and whine softly as you pull her clit between your lips in a tender suck. Her coos are the only desirable sound you’ll hear for a while, or at least that’s your fear. If only you could tell her to raise her voice so the sound of her cresting her high was clear enough to make a memory. How long will it take to be over her, you wonder. Will you ever be over her? Can you forgive yourself?

"You're so sweet," you praise in a pleasant tone, swallowing down the prickly pain trapped in your throat. Handong bobs her head quickly in response as her fingertips search for you, threading into the hair on your scalp. As she tugs with affectionate urging, your stomach twists in torment. If you could offer more compliments without arousing suspicion, you would. But at that moment, as you encircle your tongue around her most vulnerable bud, you can't even tell her how much you love her—how sorry you are for what you're about to do. You can only be thankful that she never looks down when she’s so close to ecstasy. She's yet to notice the hot tears of self-hatred staining your cheeks like rivulets of volcanic lava.

Her hips roll and usher you closer to the dreaded goodbye, her release imminent by the high-pitched breaths catching in her throat. You will your hand to crawl up her writhing body to knead the soft, supple flesh of her breast. When her warm palm presses it closer to her chest, she spreads her legs further for you as if she trusts you that much more. The gesture, although indiscernible on the surface, is profound enough to make your chest ache with regret. Feeling her ebb and flow between tension and ease, pursuit and surrender, is almost too much to bear. Her brow is scrunched in concentration, her body searching for relief, and you know all too well that your time is running out.

Do you let her have it? Are you truly prepared to close the chapter to a story that should never have been written in the first place? Only at the close do you understand how much time you’ve stolen from her, giving her pleasure after pleasure with no promise of permanence, no willingness to bind yourself to her. There is no word to describe the depth of hatred you feel for yourself as her folds lacquer with sweetness against your lips. She could have been with another for the last two years and yet she waited for you, hopeful you would come around and settle down. She stayed, optimistic of future investment, of a life built with you at its center. If you had been a better person, capable of lasting love, you would have given it to her. You would have given her the universe.

But you’re not, and you didn’t. You’re a monster.

Her slick is tasteful against your tongue as you blink back the ever-brimming tears. You long to halt the hot droplets before she discovers them, but each time you think it’s over, you hear another sound of passion from your lover and are battered with more memories of the time stolen from her.

 _This has gone on too long_. You should never have come over tonight and you realize that too late, when your willing mark is on the brink of rapturous bliss. You plunge two fingers inside of her walls and soak in her wanton moan of thanksgiving. Her depths are heated and puffy from the swell of multiple rounds and yet you’re greeted with a sumptuous squelch—the promise of one last peak to crest before it’s over.

Her hands clasp her breasts as you undulate the pads of your fingertips, searching for the rough patch to unlock the pleasure she’s hoping to achieve. The sharp inhale of breath signals she's pliant putty in your practiced hands. Her eyes swim in a haze of longing as her fingers pinch and pull at her nipples. She needs you. Her limber body makes it known as she writhes against the sheets, her brow furrowed in intense focus. When you press a small twist of your finger firmly against her walls, another moan slips by her lips as she lets you guide her closer and closer to the edge.

“You’re such a delight when you moan for me, kitten,” you remark with another drag of your fingertip.

Handong releases a long sigh as she nods her head, keeping her eyes closed as the corners of her lips perk up in approval. You feel a heavy dread creep into your heart and immediately regret the choice of the pet name. It’s her favorite and as you see her face bloom, you loathe yourself for using it. You know it’s the last time you’ll ever be with her. The happiness she relishes now will be countered with horror later when the pet name is spoiled by your absence, and it will be your fault, a monster of your own willful abandonment.

Her hand traces along the swell of her breast and you hope that when you’re gone, she remembers the good times you had together. You hope her favorite name to be called during sex won't be ruined forever. She deserves to find someone else who will make her happy and use “kitten” with them.

“I’m—ah, please, _please_ ,” Handong whines, tucking her plump bottom lip between her teeth. Her pleas break through your mental quagmire. “Don’t stop, ___.”

"I won't," you assure her. "Not 'til you soil these fingers. Come on. Do it again."

"Do it, do it," she chants, repeating the command to herself. " _God..._ "

"That's it, kitten. Give me your cum, _all_ your cum."

Her walls contract around your fingers and summon you to breathe in her sweet scent once more, your tongue lapping her sensitive clit with just enough pressure to take her to the end she's pleading to visit. Her thighs tremble on either side of your head as your hand pumps repeatedly, thrusting the pads of your fingertips to massage her with each pass. She clenches with a cadence so validating to your ego, it makes you lightheaded. Your chest swells moment by moment as her body speaks to you with sordid squelches and hot release spilling in short spurts. Her voice rises as she presses her cheek to the pillow and arches her back, releasing a moan so enticing you wish to swallow it whole.

When she inhales a sharp intake of breath and lifts her head from the pillow, she appears startled, wide-eyed with primal instinct like you’re doing something wrong, but the continued motion of your touch throttles her toward a silent scream as a gush of hot, slick cum pools in your awaiting palm. She crests her high with a strained groan of pleasure and drops back against the plush cushion. Only then do you slow your hand, milking her with tenderness until her convulsions cease.

As her body returns to a state of relaxation, yours tenses with guilt over the looming conclusion you know must take place. When she props herself up to rest against her elbows, she smiles and you swallow down what you’re feeling. You must wear the mask of deceit a little longer and tend to the young lady continuing to pour herself into the intimate moment between you.

You withdraw your fingers and playfully wave the sticky tendrils for her inspection, quirking an eyebrow with a prideful expression.

“I can’t believe you made me come that hard again,” she whispers in lighthearted embarrassment, averting her eyes.

“You sounded like you needed another and I wanted to give it to you.”

You lift your fingers to your mouth to take a final taste, your tongue dragging along the length of each one before submerging your forefinger between your lips. “I know you’ve had a hard week. You should let me take care of you more often.”

“You’re always so nice to me,” she coos, blushing as she watches you wipe her shimmery sheen from your chin. “What did I do to deserve you?”

The tender statement stabs you between the ribs.

“You let me treat you like a queen,” you purr, drawing out each syllable. “It’s what you deserve.”

 _What am I doing?_ You scream at yourself for the charade. You’re on the cusp of breaking her heart and you’re spending your last moments digging a deeper hole for her to fall into.

You shimmy away from the bed and stand on your feet, reaching your arms overhead to give your body a long stretch. It’s increasingly difficult to set your eyes upon the woman lounging in the bed, especially when you feel her eyes on you, luring you back in.

“Want to order some takeout?” she offers, pulling her loose t-shirt back over her head. “We could call that one place you like.”

“I can’t.” The words slip before you can bite them down to more palatable bits. “I have work in the morning. Sorry, I should head out.”

“Sure,” Handong replies, unable to mask the disappointment in her voice. She tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear before adding, “Will I see you tomorrow after work?”

The lies glide off your tongue like oil in a hot pan.  “Yeah, I can come by. It’s a late shift though.”

“That’s okay. I just want to see you.”

_I_ _’m a piece of shit._

You smile at the young woman on the bed as the eviscerating pain of repeated untruths mount in your throat. Tilting your chin, you beckon, “Come here, give me a kiss before I go.”

Her lips curl in sweet affirmation as she gives a parting brush of her lips. Your mouth molds against hers as you try to memorize her features, how gentle and soft her countenance is when she kisses. It pains you to admit you’ll miss that sweetness the most. It hurts to know the future wound you’ll deliver her may drag on for weeks. Still, you are convinced it’s the best for her. She’s too good for you and you know it. As fleeting as your morals have been in your life, you’re experienced enough to foresee this is what’s best in the long run. Giving her the chance at the future she’s always wanted is the gift she deserves. You can give her that. You love her, so you must let her go.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you assure against her lips, pulling away with a small hand squeeze against her bare thigh. She bobs her head and blinks her sleepy eyes, taking every word you say at face value with complete trust.

As you turn on your heel, the full weight of the final trudge to the front door bears down on your heart. It’s a burdensome lump of lead with an intense gravitational pull, dragging you to the hell of your own making. You sense that internal collapse as though it will swallow you whole and yet, your feet propel you forward past Handong’s kitchen to her narrow hallway, the last stretch before the proverbial death knell.

“I love you.”

Her voice blesses your ears for the last time and your conscience proclaims you’re wholly undeserving.

“I love you too.”

You murmur the words over your shoulder, unable to muster the courage to turn around and look into her face. The sensation percolating in your belly is nothing short of disgust, the unadulterated self-loathing you are sure to wear as a cloak for the next several weeks—until it forms a new skin, a new mask to wear.

As your hand clasps the cold steel of the doorknob, you draw in a full breath until the pressure of it straining your lungs stings like a punishment.

“Forgive me.” You exhale a wounded lament against the door. The knob turns as your vision blurs with the despair of what you’re doing. Your inner monologue chants all the poignant insecurities and shortcomings woven into your being. It recites the next steps: disappear into the city, change your number, your address, your habits. You will burn up a piece of your soul to make room for the next conquest as you continue to search for ways to fill the cavities within. And as much as that hurts, you feel it less and less with each attempt.

This is who you are, who you were born and reborn to be.

You love them.

You leave them.

You’re the passing moment, unworthy of attachment—a foolhardy investment.

You’re the short-lived dalliance, the pride before the fall.

Yes, you know yourself, through and through, and this change is necessary—it’s fated. You’re the controlled burn which restores the soil to its proper process.

_She will find love again._

And with the solemn swallow of self-acceptance, your feet cross the threshold.


End file.
